


What We Stay Alive For

by greyhavensking



Series: you are the future [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky's epic crush on Captain Steve Rogers, Fluff, Howling Commandos - Freeform, M/M, Steve and Bucky didn't grow up together, WWII, get it right, it's not an "obsession" it's admiration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhavensking/pseuds/greyhavensking
Summary: How Bucky Barnes' big gay crush on Steve Rogers got its start.





	1. Chapter 1

 

He’s been drifting for hours, riding out the mild and incredibly unpleasant high of the latest slurry of drugs they’d pumped into him. Shadows flicker in the corners of the room, morphing into shapes, into things he doesn’t want to give names to -- monsters, memories, whichever is better at scaring him shitless in that particular moment. 

Someone’s producing a steady stream of gibberish that occasionally resolves itself into a string of numbers and a rank and  _ holy fucking shit that’s him, ain’t it, going off like he’s lost his damn mind _ . The thought slips away just as he’s stretched out a hand for it; he lets it go, lets his eyes close, like that’ll make the shadows vanish right along with the room. He’s not that naive; the shadows aren’t really  _ there _ , in the hellish exam room he’s been living in for the last few weeks (has it been weeks? Longer? Time went real slippery after the first coupla days and he hasn’t really gotten a chance to pin it down since), they’re in  _ him _ , in his foggy, drug-addled mind. He maybe wouldn’t have known that with any sort of certainty if that beady-eyed fuck hadn’t been  _ so damn interested  _ in his hallucinations. Demanding he describe them out loud, in as much detail as he could muster, all so the fucker could adjust the next dosage accordingly. Or some shit. Bucky’s lost track of things as of late, and who the fuck could blame him?

So, the shadows. They’re omnipresent, and while most of the time what they conjure up leaves him screaming and thrashing against his restraints, desperate to get away, to fight back -- well, sometimes they’re a little kinder to him. He sees his little sister once or twice, his ma another time or two. A guy from his unit appears one day, sits right on down at Bucky’s side and talks his goddamn ear off about nothing at all. Bucky would’ve screamed at him to shut his damn mouth if he hadn’t been so overjoyed at the reprieve from his own ever-circling thoughts.

(And obviously it’s ironic --  _ ha-fucking-ha  _ \-- that he feels so grateful to a  _ hallucination  _ for distracting him from his own mind, but, well, Bucky’s long past giving a shit about the state of his mental health)

This is really all to say that Bucky is disappointed but not in any way surprised when a hulking shadow detaches itself from the fold and proceeds to vigorously shake him awake. Or at least shake him out of his semi-delirious ramblings. The shadow-man isn’t a familiar face, which isn’t uncommon, but Bucky’s used to the faces he doesn’t know on sight looking a little more demonic and lot less…  _ pretty _ . Because,  _ wow _ , Christ, there’s no other word for it, is there? Not for a mug like that. Looks like it belongs on an angel, or somethin’. Bucky may actually say as much, but he hopes not, God, what a disaster that would be, goin’ all starry-eyed over a figment of his fuckin’ imagination. 

He says something, though, slurring his words all the while (and for once he really wishes it was because he was absolute shit-faced, that’d be a dream compared to this). “Wha’s a guy like you doin’ here?”

Those bright blue eyes stare back at him for a few seconds, and then the shadow-man  _ laughs _ , just a little. He looks away to yank the strap around Bucky’s chest free of the table -- and  _ okay _ , Bucky does love a man who can throw his weight around -- before catching Bucky’s eye again, his mouth twitching into an incredulous smile.

“Practicing insubordination, for one,” he says in a deep, rumbling baritone that Bucky  _ is way too out of it to appreciate in full _ , what a tragedy. 

Insubordination, huh? Bucky’s subconscious would go for a troublemaker to play his hero.

“With a face like that?” he murmurs, reasonably sure his face is doing something that vaguely constitutes as a cocky smirk. “I bet they’d let you get away with murder, pal.”

“Say that again when you’re looking a little less concussed.”

At some point in their delightful conversation Angel (in lieu of a name for this newly-minted hallucination, Bucky’s improvising) seems to have snapped the last of Bucky’s restraints, which is interesting, considering he’s never gotten this far in his imagined escape attempts before. It’s only going to hurt that much worse when he wakes up back on that table, but fuck it, Bucky could use a break from his grief for a while. He tries (valiantly, he might add) to get up under his own power, but his body has other ideas; half a second after his feet touch the floor his knees buckle, and he’d no doubt go face-planting into the floor if not for the arm that Angel gets around his waist. Which is nice. Kinda distracting, but he can work with that.

Bucky snakes an arm around Angel’s shoulders, grinning like an absolute loon when he mumbles, “ _ Oops _ ,” because apparently, he’s trying to re-enact every time a woman’s made a drunken pass at him. Angel should be flattered; Bucky’s never usually this easy.

“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, perking up. He tightens his grip on Angel and draws closer, another improbable smile splitting his dumb face. “You sound like home. You from New York?”

Angel looks torn for a moment like he’s not sure whether he should answer that or not, but when Bucky juts out his lower lip in what could be mistaken for a pout (a look he has most definitely  _ not  _ spent hours in front of the mirror perfecting) he sighs. “Brooklyn,” he says, “I’m from Brooklyn.”

“No shit? Me too! ‘S like we’re soulmates or somethin’!”

Angel snorts another laugh at that, which makes Bucky light up like a damn Christmas tree. 

“Musta lived in a different neighborhood, ‘cause I sure as shit would remember someone like you,” Bucky muses. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Steve Rogers. And you’re Barnes, right? Sergeant Barnes? I, uh… I heard you, before.”

And just like that something clicks in Bucky’s head. Because he’s never had a hallucination touch him and feel so  _ real _ ; because he’s never gotten past the door before; because this is  _ really happening  _ and for God’s sake, he can’t be a burden when this man --  _ Steve Rogers _ , the crazy bastard -- is risking so much to help him. He’s still dizzy, with his arms and legs still feeling about three times too heavy, but he straightens as best he can, putting a scant amount of distance between himself and Steve. He’s not fooling anyone; he’s in rough shape, and if Steve didn’t have a grip on his waist he’s pretty sure he’d been sprawled out on the floor in a heartbeat. But Steve lets him pretend that he hasn’t lost the last of his dignity and doesn’t call him out on his bullshit. Instead, he just watches Bucky carefully, curling his fingers into the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt over his hip, his eyes big and earnest.

“My men,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. “The others, are they…”

“I freed most of them already,” Steve assures him, and now he’s shuffling them out of the room and down a dim hallway that Bucky only remembers in snatches. He doesn’t let go of Bucky for even an instant, even when he has to take most of Bucky’s weight -- just keeps them moving, closer to the cacophony of sounds that Bucky’s only just beginning to notice. Some sergeant he is. “One of them, Dugan, made me promise I’d come and find you. Said he knew you were too much of a stubborn ass to lose out to a buncha Nazis.”

A slow smile creeps over Bucky’s face. Dugan. What a guy. Bucky’ll have to think of some way to thank him for this, for sending Steve after him, when anybody else would have assumed there wasn’t anyone left alive to go and rescue. Dugan has too much faith him but he’s never been so grateful for misplaced faith in his life. 

It’s not long before they reach the bulk of the fighting. Bucky had been afraid in his few moments of lucidity that the starved, broken-down soldiers he’d left behind wouldn’t be a match for these Nazi mooks, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find that the tide appears to have turned in their favor. From their position he picks out Dugan and Gabe back-to-back near the center of the floor, firing with deadly aim at fleeing black-clad soldiers; they must have snatched some of those insane energy guns and learned how to use them in a hurry, too. Morita, who Bucky only met in captivity, isn’t far away, hunkered down behind a stack of crates and calmly picking off any stragglers that pass him by. Beyond him are Dernier and Monty, another pair of poor bastards Bucky hadn’t seen before they all found their way here; they look to be engaged in quite the shouting match, paying no heed to the chaos around them but miraculously unscathed for their inattention. 

“Barnes.”

Bucky snaps his head around, at once recalling the weight of Steve’s arm around his waist, the line of heat the man sears into his side. Steve is looking at him, his expression aggrieved and uncertain, and Bucky feels his stomach plummet into his shoes. Whatever Steve’s about to say, Bucky sure as hell isn’t gonna be a fan.

“I gotta go back,” Steve says, and yeah, God, Bucky hates when he’s right. Hasn’t been a factor much lately, but he’s due for it about now, he supposes. “There’s someone—I got everyone out but I can’t let any of the higher-ups go if I can help it, ya know?” A barely-there smile flashes across Steve’s face. “Already lookin’ at a severe reprimand for goin’ against orders, the least I can do is try to soften the blow by bringin’ back from Nazi schmucks for interrogation.”

Personally, Bucky thinks the rescue and retrieval of a couple dozen POWs would be more than enough to persuade any officer with any kinda sense that Steve did the right thing, but hey, this is why he’s only a sergeant. 

“That your roundabout way of asking if I can stay upright without assistance for more than a handful’a seconds?” Bucky asks, unable to thwart the reckless smirk that stretches his lips at the way Steve flushes, apparently embarrassed at being caught out. “I’ll be fine, Rogers, I’ll get a hold of one of my men, give them babysitting duty for a while. Dugan’ll be  _ thrilled _ , honest.”

Steve’s look of relief hits Bucky right in the center of his chest, like a goddamn brass-knuckle punch to the solar plexus. There are fires raging all around the factory, machinery going up in flames, and while that should be pretty concerning for Bucky considering he’s gotta make sure his men and everyone else get out before the whole thing goes up in smoke, all he can think right then is that the flickering light paints Steve as some Adonis figure, his blond hair turned a rippling gold underneath his helmet, the shadows playing across his face highlighting that strong jaw, those cheekbones. 

Bucky is in so,  _ so much  _ trouble.

“If you’re sure…” Steve carefully removes his arm, stepping back but staying near, watching as Bucky straightens to his full height. Bucky staggers at first, but by sheer force of will, he keeps himself upright, unwilling to taint the faith Steve’s shown for him. Seeing Bucky hasn’t collapsed pathetically onto the floor, Steve gives him another spectacular smile before shooting off a hasty salute and rushing back the way they’ve just come. Bucky watches him, damn near stares a hole into the back of Steve’s skull until he turns a corner and disappears from sight. Only then does Bucky let himself slump a little, consciously shifting his weight to stay on his feet. 

He’s alive, somehow, when he very much thought he was gonna die in that hell-hole of a room. Maybe Steve really is an angel, sent by a God Bucky can’t quite believe in anymore to save Bucky’s sorry ass. Maybe he’s just lucky. Maybe he should thank everything good and pure for the gift that is Dum-Dum Dugan.

Speaking of, across the room Dugan’s lifted his head, and his gaze has zeroed in on Bucky, standing adrift in a sea of chaos, barely holding himself together but smiling like a fool anyway. Dugan’s eyes widen, and he barks something to Gabe, who whips around instantly and almost falls over himself when he catches sight of Bucky. Bucky just smiles wider, because as soon as they’ve picked off the last of the soldiers around them they’re rushing him, and Dugan nearly knocks him off his unsteady feet with a full-body tackle-hug.

“Sarge!” he shouts, much too close to Bucky’s ear for his liking, but he isn’t going to complain a damn bit about it,  _ never _ . It’s too good to hear Dugan’s dumb voice again, too much, even; Bucky can feel the tell-tale prickle of heat behind his eyes, and he makes himself laugh to cover it, clutching at Dugan’s back. “Well goddamn, that oaf really went and did it!”

“Rogers is a good guy,” Bucky chuckles, slapping Dugan on the back before pulling away. “We got other things to worry about right now, though, huh?”

Gabe, smiling wide, swings a gun off his back and presents it to Bucky with more reverence than the action deserves.

“You’ll need a weapon, then, Sarge.”  
Bucky takes the gun, giving himself a moment to work out the mechanics of the Nazi tech. Similar enough to his previous rifles that he shouldn’t have much of a problem, aside from learning to move with the kickback. His grin turns razor-sharp as he looks back up at his men. They’re looking back at him with matching smiles, and right then, Bucky realizes that things are actually gonna work out. They’re gonna get out of this, get back to the good ol’ US Army, maybe even get home. 

He’s gonna have to thank that Steve Rogers some way, somehow, because Bucky resolutely refuses to believe that he won’t be seeing Steve again on the outside. For now, though, he sets the gun against his shoulder and juts his chin out in something of a challenge. 

“Well, whaddya waitin’ for? Let’s go kill some Nazi fucks!” 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a few days later, when they’re all patched-up and debriefed, that the message gets to Bucky:

He can go home.

Honorable discharge, the whole nine yards. He’s done his duty, gone above and beyond for his country (because he didn’t give up any national secrets while under duress, though Bucky took care to refrain from mentioning that Zola hadn’t even bothered trying to pry information out of him before the experiments became a factor), and they’re proud to send him on his way, sailing back across the Atlantic and into the welcoming embrace of New York. 

If that’s what he wants.

Dugan finds him in his temporary bunk that afternoon, shoulders hunched and hands white-knuckling the once-crisp papers Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes from. He doesn’t say anything at first, just plops himself down beside Bucky, his warm bulk a welcome, if unexpected, counterpoint to the ice that’s currently drifting through Bucky’s bloodstream. Bucky scans the orders again and again, mouthing the words to himself, but he’s not seeing things. They want him to go  _ home _ , God, like it’s just that easy. Like he can strip off the uniform and the blood and sweat along with it, just slip back into one of his Sunday suits and be James Buchanan Barnes again, sans Sergeant. 

There’s a hysterical laugh bubbling up in Bucky’s throat and it takes more willpower than he cares to admit to bite it back. He’s not in the mood to have Dugan haul him off to the docs to get his head checked out; nothing they can do for him, anyway, besides what they’re planning to.

“Sarge.”

Bucky twitches, fingers curling tighter around the crinkled edges of the paper. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek, focusing on the pinprick of pain to ground himself, before he cants his head just enough to tell Dugan he’s listening.

Dugan clears his throat, then nudges Bucky’s shoulder with his own—he seems to reconsider it, though, and after huffing what sounds like a self-deprecating laugh to himself, he slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, drawing him in almost playfully. It startles a laugh from Bucky, and he swats at Dugan’s hand when he goes to ruffle Bucky’s hair. God knows Bucky hasn’t put nearly as much stock in his appearance as he used to, but the hair’s off limits,  _ everyone  _ knows that. Vanity may be a luxury in the war, but like hell Bucky’s giving up the one last shred of pride, even for his boys.

“You’re thinkin’ way too hard, Sarge,” Dugan says once their minor scuffle is over. With his free hand he gestures to the papers still in Bucky’s death-grip. “No one’s expectin’ ya to give any more than you have. Go home, kid; if anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

  
But Bucky’s shaking his head, carefully dislodging Dugan’s arm. He appreciates the camaraderie, he does, it’s just… he’s not in the right headspace for it right now, can’t think past the mounting dread that’s taken up shop in the pit of his stomach. 

“Not sure going home’s an option anymore,” he says, because he owes Dugan that much. “You know how it is, Dum-Dum, I know you do. I’m not…” He trails off, drawing a hand down his face as he exhales a shaky breath.

“None of are the same, Sarge,” Dugan reminds him. “But there’s gotta be an _after_ for us, the lucky bastards who don’t get our heads shot off in the field. Might not be what you were expecting, but you gotta take it. Don’t let the war swallow you whole, Sarge, you’re too good for that.”  
Are they the lucky ones? 

The thought knocks the breath from Bucky’s lungs, though he’s careful to disguise it as a wheezing laugh, mumbling something about a girl in Paris who can attest he’s not all that  _ good _ . Dugan seems to take his reaction as confirmation that he’s got Bucky back on track, looking towards the horizon and thinking of all the shit he’s going to get up to once he’s back in Brooklyn. Bucky doesn’t say otherwise, just bluffs his way through another few minutes of conversation until Dugan slaps him on the back and excuses himself, ‘cause  _ some  _ people still have work to do. He doesn’t watch Dugan leave, instead he stuffs his papers under his shitty mattress and laces his boots, then ducks out of his tent.

The overcast sky is a blessing, honestly; sunlight’s been nothing but stinging hell since Bucky got off that table, and he doesn’t know if that’s from being in the dark for so damn long, or from the cocktail of drugs they pumped into him. The docs didn’t run any tests on him to see what Zola really got up to because Bucky didn’t mention anything beyond the obvious gashes and bruises you’d expect to see from a POW; they didn’t press him for details and he was all too happy to let them think that that was the worst of it. 

A rueful smile tugs at Bucky’s lips as he walks, shoulders hitched up near his ears, his gait heavier than it usually is. It’s not purposeful, not really, but he’s learned a thing or two about blending in without any fancy tricks or disguises, and he knows he’ll look different enough that the casual observer’s gaze will simply skate right over him, mistaking him for any old soldier taking a stroll through base camp. He’s not looking to get into any more insightful discussions right at this moment, not until he’s drowned himself in as much alcohol as he can get his hands on.

And yet, it’s not Anderson’s (who’s always good for a bottle or two of the good stuff if you’re willing to sell a little bit of your soul) tent his feet carry him to; actually, he barely recognizes where he is, blinking in confusion as he glances around and surveys his surroundings, until he hears someone talking inside the tent he’s found himself outside of.

_ Rogers _ .

Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, spine straightening with a painful  _ crack _ . Steve Rogers. Steve  _ fucking  _ Rogers, in the flesh. Bucky hasn’t seen him since they got back to the camp, and what a tragedy that is, especially when he didn’t say so much as a word to the guy on the trek back. Bucky’d kept to himself mostly, only letting Dugan and Gabe in every so often just to assure them he was present and accounted for, and that he wasn’t about to drop dead in the middle of the forest. He’s honestly a little surprised he and Rogers didn’t run into each other in all that time; Rogers may have headed the pack of bedraggled soldiers, but by no means did he keep from mingling with the boys, doubling back to talk to anyone who looked like they needed it, flashing his encouraging smile at every limping, hobbling man who thought he couldn’t make it another step. But, Bucky thinks, maybe Dugan and Gabe thought he needed the space, and deliberately shooed Rogers off if he got within spitting distance.

_ Oh, man,  _ Bucky whines to himself,  _ you guys really weren’t readin’ me right if that’s the case.  _

Not that Bucky would, you know,  _ act  _ on any of the unsavory thoughts he’s had about Rogers, on and off the table. He’s not looking to get the guy in trouble, not after he risked his neck going against orders to save them all. But, well, Bucky’d be lying if said he hasn’t been fantasizing about that gorgeous mug, those goddamn ridiculous shoulders. There’s no harm in  _ looking _ , really, so long as he keeps his eyes in his skull and his tongue in his mouth.

_ Shit _ . That is very much not a thread he should tug on if he wants to keep even a sliver of his fractured sanity intact.

Still. Seeing Rogers once more won’t hurt anyone, least of all  _ Rogers _ . So Bucky squares his shoulders, smooths a hand over his (probably disheveled, fuck) hair, and fixes an approximation of his usual killer smile on his lips, just in time for the tent flap to pull back and reveal—

Not Rogers.

Not even close to Rogers. A woman steps out, an admittedly beautiful woman. Perfectly coiffed brown curls, lips red like she’s going into battle, and a look in her eyes like she’s got a dozen ways to kill you just off the top of her head, and every last one of them completely without the gun Bucky clocks in the waistband of her skirt. She pauses when she catches sight of him, eyes narrowing to curious slits. His grin flickers, trying valiantly to revive itself before petering out, leaving him frowning at her; probably a little rude, but what the hell? Bucky hasn’t been too chivalrous as of late anyway, one more instance won’t condemn him to anything worse than he’s already got coming.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks, arching a brow. “Or was it Captain Rogers you were looking for?”

Bucky’s mouth opens, then shuts with a teeth-rattling  _ clack _ . What is he supposed to say? That he wanted one last glimpse of Rogers’ pretty face before he shipped back to the states? Yeah, right, like that’ll go down well. But the lady is a-waiting, and Bucky won’t just cut and run, even if every cell in his body seems like it’s itching to do just that.

“No, ma’am,” he says, his voice only a little too rough around the edges, giving his words a hint of a bite. He swallows, shakes his head some. “Just passing through, stretching my legs. I didn’t mean to linger out here.”

  
He can’t tell if she believes a word he says, her expression inscrutable, her gaze piercing. He’s not going to tack anything on, though; he’s got nothing else to say, not to her, no matter who she is. If she wants to report him, well… he can’t exactly stop her.

“You’re Barnes, aren’t you?” she asks eventually, and Bucky’s head snaps up.

“Sergeant James Barnes, that’s me,” he says dryly. Word got out about his stint as a POW and he’s had more than enough people offering their sympathy in the past few days, so he’s not  _ that  _ shocked she guessed his name. It’s still unsettling, but nothing he hasn’t braced himself to deal with.

“Shouldn’t you be packing? I’ve heard that the colonel discharged you.”

He lets out a stilted breath, shoulders lifting in what his thinks passes as a half-assed shrug. “I should be,” is all he manages to get out past the sudden tightness of his throat. 

She doesn’t respond at first, her eyes flicking over him from head to toe in a decidedly  _ un _ sexy way, the look on her face pensive at best. She tucks the obviously well-worn folder against her chest, drumming her fingers on the paper, and then she’s nodding, a little to herself, a little to Bucky, it seems like. Her lips twitch into something of a smile, maybe closer to a smirk, then she says, “I’ve a job for your, Sergeant, if you’re feeling up to it.”

He straightens to attention almost instantly. “A job?” 

Another nod. “In London. Analytics, mostly, nothing very glamorous, I’m afraid.” As if Bucky’s in any sort of state for  _ glamorous  _ positions anyway; she kindly doesn’t mention the fact, and continues on despite the incredulous expression he must be pulling. “I’ve read through your file, and I know you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and the SSR always has use for those. We’ve got some of the best minds in the country cracking codes and poring over strategies, but I suspect they could benefit from someone who’s got personal experience against the enemy.”

His mouth has gone suddenly dry, his mind utterly blank. He’s distantly aware of his gaping maw and his saucer-wide eyes, but they aren’t of any real concern to him, not when this woman—a  _ stranger _ —is giving him the chance he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. He could stay, contribute to the war effort, avoid going back to Brooklyn for that much longer, all without throwing himself back into the fray. He might just survive the war this way.

“Well, Sergeant?” she presses after a beat, amusement coloring her frankly stunning features. He’s not about to ask her to take a spin on the dance floor, but she’s definitely a sight for sore eyes. Too bad he’s more into blondes these days. “I haven’t got all day, unfortunately.”

“I—yes!” he says, too fast, too loud. “Yes, ma’am, that’d be—I’d be honored.”

“Good,” she says, patting him lightly on the shoulder as she moves to stride past him, her trajectory likely bringing her into Colonel Phillips’ orbit. Over her shoulder, she adds, “Report to the Colonel’s tent tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred sharp and we’ll hash out the logistics. Don’t be late, Sergeant!”

Like hell that’ll happen. There’s a good chance Bucky won’t be sleeping tonight, too keyed up and entirely too full of an uncanny mix of gratitude of gut-wrenching anxiety, but he’ll be damned if he misses his window with this woman. 

“Hey, you never gave me a name!” he calls out, taking a few steps after her.

“Peggy Carter of the SSR,” she returns without looking back this time. He doesn’t fault her for it; a dame like that doesn’t need much of an introduction, all things considered. 

A wry grin pulls at his lips as he watches her go, hands loosely shoved into his pockets, rocking some on his heels. Maybe he’s making the biggest mistake of his life with this, dismissing his chance to make a clean break with the army, his chance to settle in with his family again, but—he’s not worried just yet. He doesn’t have any real clue what the SSR is (he’s heard the name around camp once or twice, grasps that they’re some super special military division but not much beyond that) and he’s known Peggy Carter for less than five minutes, but that’s nothing compared to the terror of waking up on that table, helpless and panicked, nothing at all. 

Whistling some nameless tune to himself, Bucky turns right back around towards his own bunk. So he won’t be seeing Rogers today; could be that he won’t be seeing him at all. It’s better this way, Bucky things, with no risk, no temptation to get the both of them booted out on their asses. Rogers is a good man, the bravest son of a bitch Bucky’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, and the last thing he wants to do is jeopardize the guy’s future for some (very illegal) fun. Rogers is gonna do great things; he doesn’t need Bucky screwing anything up for him.

And if Bucky cranes his neck to get a last, fleeting glimpse of Rogers’ tent, his heart tripping over itself and his stomach flipped over, well, that’s his secret to bear. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Barnes, you gotta explain this to me.”

Bucky, who’s just pushed his way into the room, exhausted from the run Meyers had insisted he join him on, grunts out something noncommittal as he waves a flippant hand at Harrison and sinks down onto his bed face-first. He hears Harrison mumble something uncomplimentary under his breath but chooses not to respond to it; his body  _ aches _ in a way it hasn’t since basic, and most of Bucky’s brain power has been taken up by his morbid need to catalogue each and every twinge of pain. 

“Barnes,” Harrison tries again a few minutes later. “Honestly, I’m a tad disturbed by what I’m seeing here.”

“The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Bucky demands, muffled by his unsatisfactory pillow. No way he’s lifting his head for whatever nonsenses Harrison has for him, not until he’s wrangled a few hours of sleep and a decent meal.

“Your shrine, that’s what.”

Frowning, Bucky turns his face just enough that he can squint one eye in Harrison’s direction. The red-haired man is seated atop his trunk, one knee drawn to his chest. He’s staring straight at Bucky, but once he sees that he’s gotten his attention his jerks his chin at the wall above Bucky’s cot. Realization washes over Bucky abruptly and he scrambles upright, knocking his pillow to the ground as he flails into a sitting position so that he can meet Harrison head-on.

“It’s, it’s not a  _ shrine _ ,” he hisses, the conviction of which is somewhat undermined by his (rather juvenile) efforts to block Harrison’s view of the wall with his body and raised arms. “I just... “

“Have an obsession with Captain America?” Harrison offers with a smirk.

Bucky flushes despite himself.  _ Obsession _ . Such an ugly word. He prefers to think of it as admiration of the captain’s continued triumphs. The man saved his life, and Bucky never got the chance to repay even a tenth of that debt before Rogers hightailed it to London along with Dugan, Morita, Monty, Dernier and Gabe. What a tragedy that by the time Bucky got himself shipped out to London the good captain was already gone, running amuck throughout the whole of the European continent with his handful of probably-unstable men.

The shrine, though -- he does think he’s acting a little like a schoolgirl with that.

Above his bed he’s pinned newspaper clippings detailing Rogers’ heroic escapades across Europe, as well as those featuring the Howling Commandos -- otherwise known as the men Bucky met and boned with while captured by Hydra. The name came out of nowhere as far as he knows, something one of the journalists printed after witnessing the absolute chaos the men brought with them when on leave. They got more noise complaints than whole regiments of soldiers. A major publication picked up the piece and now more often than not that’s what Cap and his boys are referred to as in the media. Bucky thinks it’s fitting, especially with Dugan counted among the group. 

So what if he keeps tabs on the captain? It’s harmless and mostly explained by his connection to Dugan and Gabe; what sergeant wouldn’t want to know how men he’d formerly had under his command are faring these days, especially when they’re sent out on increasingly dangerous missions? That’s what he says to Harrison, anyway, though it doesn’t seem like he’s all that convincing going by the complicated movements of Harrisons’ mouth and jaw. Still, Harrison drops his interrogation and instead turns to stripping down and crawling under his covers, mumbling a careless goodnight to Bucky. He’s asleep in moments, his breathing rhythmic and deep.

Bucky lets out a quiet gust of a breath, rolling onto his back, his hands settled over his stomach. His eyes track the shadows that play across the mottled ceiling, flickering in and out of existence as the candle Bucky keeps on his trunk waxes and wanes. It’s harmless, he tells himself again, just a silly little thing to occupy his time when he’s not assisting the brains (or, more likely, regaling them with tales of his time with Dugan and Gabe, the most popular of which being the time they ambushed a scouting party of Nazis and took ‘em down while they were, ah,  _ relieving  _ themselves in the woods). His mouth pulls into a faint moue, hands curling into the stiff fabric of the jacket he hadn’t bothered extricating himself from before collapsing into bed. 

He’s sure as not convincing himself with that bullshit, let alone Harrison.

Harrison’s alright, he won’t prod too much into Bucky’s personal affairs; in fact, he’ll steer well clear of anything that isn’t surface-level, and his teasing never gets out of hand. Bucky would be surprised if this conversation went beyond the shitshow Bucky barely stumbled his way through tonight. But, shit, Bucky’s not fooling anyone, is he?  _ Admiration _ , sheesh. While it’s not a total lie (Bucky really does admire Captain Rogers, the man’s a tactical genius from what Bucky’s read in the papers), it’s barely scratching the surface: Bucky’s  _ infatuated _ , is what he is. He’s got a fucking crush. 

Bucky snorts a muffled laugh, throwing an arm over his mouth to stifle the sound, lest he wake Harrison from his much-needed beauty sleep. Bucky with a  _ crush _ . Can’t say he’s used to the feeling it brings with it, the bubbly, giddy warmth inflating his chest every time he pictures Rogers  _ smiling at him _ . Back in Brooklyn Bucky had a bit of a reputation among the dames. He didn’t stay with any one girl for more than a coupla weeks, but he treated ‘em right, ever single girl; took them out for dancing, sometimes to a diner, to a movie if he had the money for it. He kissed their cheeks and played the perfect gentleman while they were out, and behind closed doors… he wasn’t all that different, really. He wasn’t much for sleeping around, despite what stories his dates liked to tell their friends. There wasn’t any harm in letting people think what they wanted to. And it’s not like he’s a total prude; he’s had his fair share of  _ daliences  _ in his time, it’s just… 

It’s not even that he doesn’t  _ like _ girls, because he  _ does _ . What’s not to like? Soft curves and gentle smiles, some downright feisty tempers from a few of his more memorable dates. No, he likes dames just fine, he just likes fellas, too. He’s especially got a thing for guys who look like they can throw him around a little, but wouldn’t resort to it outside of the bedroom (or, more realistically, a back alley near the docks). Point is, he’s pretty experienced with the more passionate emotions related to romance. This? This innocent fluttering under his ribs? That’s new for him. Bucky’s never taken an interest in anyone like this, not even in his younger days. Apparently he’s skipped right past the puppy-love stage that so many teens found themselves in, only for it to hit him smack in the face courtesy of Captain Steve Rogers.

God, is he that easy to impress? 

No, as much as Bucky’s been relegating himself to the role of  _ damsel in distress _ , he doesn’t think Rogers being his alleged white knight is what brought this  _ crush  _ on. Rogers is just… he’s  _ good _ , and every article Bucky painstakingly clips out and (embarrassingly) memorizes only reinforces that belief. Sure, he’s hot as sin, with possibly the most devastating smile Bucky’s ever seen on another human being, and that definitely gets Bucky going, but Bucky’s overlooked attractive people before. Or he’s gotten a decent lay from them and moved on. 

Something about Rogers won’t let Bucky go, though.

Biting his lip, Bucky silently rolls back onto his side, flicking his gaze up to the… okay, awash in the glow of the candle, Bucky can see where Harrison might’ve gotten the impression that he’s been building a shrine. He won’t be admitting to that outside of the confines of his own head, but, yeah, it’s kind of a shrine. And there’s one photo that always snags Bucky’s attention.

There’s Rogers, decked out in his patriotic garb (and as tacky as is it, Bucky would probably be wiping the drool from his chin if he ever got a look at it up close), staring off into the distance, jaw jutting out all heroic-like, the shield gleaming at his side. The Howling Commandos are  _ supposed  _ to be surrounding him, but, well, what can Bucky say? He cut them out of the picture without even thinking about what that might look like to the casual observer. Ugh. There’s not even a pretense he can fall back on, he just wanted to gaze longingly at Rogers’ too-goddamn-pretty face without the Commandos distracting him. 

He wonders, some days, if Rogers remembers him. Remembers pulling him off that table, remembers the way Bucky made an absolute fool of himself before he got a damn grip on whatever was left of his fractured psyche. On the one hand, Bucky really does not want Rogers to think of his dopey, smitten smile whenever he crosses his mind, but on the other hand, he wants Rogers to  _ think of him _ , whatever the reason, because Bucky does not want to be the only person feeling like a goddamn idiot for letting the guy go without doing… something. Rogers probably wouldn’t even go for that kinda thing, but… the  _ what-if  _ has been plaguing Bucky for months.

He told himself it was better this way, better that they hadn’t gotten to know each other. The more time passes, though, and he’s not nearly as sure as he had been. 

Suddenly feeling sick, Bucky lurches upright and huffs out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Bucky could sleep in spite of it, but this way he won’t feel Rogers’ stationary eyes on the back of his head. Or, at least can he convince himself that’s the case. 

He’ll take the “shrine” down tomorrow, because even if it’s not better this way, he doesn’t have much of a choice anymore. 


End file.
